Uncle Bobby
by VictorianChik
Summary: When Bobby pays a visit to help the boys with a bizarre case, he realizes that they need help with more than just dealing with a trickster. Rate PG13 for mild swearing, angst, and spanking in later chapters. Complaints about CP will be ignored as always.
1. Chapter 1 Fighting

AN: All right, I've never written Supernatural before and I've never written a three part short story before so please give me some slack here.

After Thursday's episode, Tall Tales, this idea hatched. So I thought about it and decided to write this story in first person from Bobby's POV. Now, I'm a 24-year-old young woman so I thought it would be interesting to get in the mindset of a 40-something hunter. I apologize if the set-up seems a little long; I need space to get things rolling as I'm sure you can all tell from my writing. Tell me what you think.

I don't own this or make any money. CW and Kripke and other people do.

Spoilers: Born under a Bad Sign and Tall Tales, maybe a few from last season. The show is so ingrained into my brain I don't know if I'm spoiling or not.

And there is no spanking in this chapter or really bad language so I don't think I need a warning. But there will be in next chapters – really, I can't write a story without CP, it seems. But you all know that if you've read my other stuff.

And it's not beta-ed, so I apologize for any typos.

Anything else, please email me so I can change it. Thanks!

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I have to admit, I was surprised to hear from the boys. And so soon after Sam's possession and Dean getting shot. I had thought they would not get on the horse again so soon, so to speak – I expected them to take some time off or hang out or do anything besides jumping right back on the hunt. Don't get me wrong – the hunt's great. Nothing like it, the danger, the excitement, that moment when you could die, and then once you pull it off. Man! Like real good sex with a cooler full of beer beside the bed. Not that I've had that many women, but you get my drift.

But these guys hadn't taken a break – just jumped right back in there.

And now they were stumped. So they called me.

I got to tell ya, I was not expecting that. I mean, I've helped them out before, sure, but they've usually come to me at my place. I don't mind; they're John's kids and pretty good boys, and I'm sorry I couldn't have helped out more after John was killed. I admit I'm not really good at this stuff. Not the hunting stuff – the feelings. I'd fight beside John any day of the week, but I had trouble asking questions about his family or how he was handling his grief over losing Mary. He would leave after we finished the kill, without much talk, and I was relieved each time.

But he was gone, and now they had called me.

John had gotten calls from them, too. When things really got tight, they had called him for help. Most of the time he hadn't answered. I don't have a family, so I'm no expert, but it seems to me like it would take guts of steel to ignore a cry for help from your own kids. The fact that they would call him at all proved they still needed his help, but that s.o.b. ignored them, didn't even call back to check on them.

I could have ignored them, too. Pretended to be out of town, or dead, or uninterested, but I came anyway. It wasn't that far, and after all the trouble Sam's possession, I found myself driving well over the speed limit to get there. Was this a trap? Had one of them been possessed again? It still kinda gave me the creeps, remembering Sam's face after he had taken a sip of that beer. Nice Sam, polite Sam, usually the caring one, the one that showed his feelings more than that bonehead of an older brother. Dean meant well, I guess, but the way he kept losing his brother was beyond me. Seemed every time I turned around, I was hearing a story about how Sam disappeared again. Really, how can you lose a guy that big and tall? It's not like he can hide easily in a crowd.

Once I got there, I went to see them directly. They were in some kind of weekly rented hotel that looked about right for a couple of hunters: dark, dreary, and dingy. I parked my truck and hiked it up the stairs.

I knocked, and Sam opened the door, Dean behind him.

I glanced them both over, trying to look casual. They didn't seem possessed. Tense, high-strung, and emotional about something, but not possessed. I had a flask filled with holy water in my jacket, and I briefly considered throwing a little on each of them. If they weren't possessed, the water might at least distract them from whatever had made them so irritated.

I settled for a tight smile instead.

Then we got down to business.

Now, I don't have a family as I've said before so I don't know a lot about children. I stayed with a cousin for a week once, and she had twin four-year-olds that were into everything and always squabbling with each other. That was years ago, and I'm sure the twins act better now, but I swear the two boys in front of me were acting like those twins – grouchy and needing a nap.

Instead of telling me the story straightforward, they kept interrupting each other, trying to get the story right according to each of them. I was led to believe that Dean was a blatant womanizer, guzzling alcohol and cruising tramps, and then I was supposed to believe that Sam was a prissy brat who wouldn't stop talking nonsense. As they went on, their stories grew more and more exaggerated. Sam was all sentimental, hugging and crying over strangers, Dean was a glutton and crashed computers with porn, Sam was mad because Dean took his computer, Dean took his money because Sam messed up his car. What a headache!

Mid-way through the story and after breaking up the second fight, I figured out what they were dealing with. Now, a trickster can be, well, tricky, for lack of a better word. They get your attention fixed on something else, and they screw with your head like crazy. Not fun, very frustrating, and probably not what these two needed after a demonic possession. Yet, it was a trickster, and I let their story go on to end before I told them.

The squabbling between them did not bother me so much – they had to get on each other's nerves after a while. Dean could be a smart-ass with those comments and that wise-guy attitude, and I bet Sam's self-righteous huffiness grew old, especially when he traded that huffiness for sneakiness whenever he wanted to do something on his own and Dean said no.

When they got to the part about the fight over the money, I resisted the urge to smack both of them on the back of the head. Arguing was one thing – everyone gets into a spat sooner of later, and they had been together a lot, and not in the best of circumstances. So yell, argue, and (I'm sure in Sam's case) cry, but physical fighting was something else. Two guys that size taking shots at each other, and someone was going to get hurt. Sam was taller, but I would bet on Dean be stronger; that boy looked like he could fight dirty if he had to. And in a hotel room what with beds and tables and a TV that the managers would charge them for if they broke it . . . and the fact that someone might hear them banging through the ceiling and come up to investigate . . . and the fact that Dean was wanted by the Feds, and they didn't have an honest way of earning any money beside scams . . . !

I had to bite my tongue to keep back my temper. How did John do it? When they were little, sure, you put them over your knee and paddle that sass right out of them. But they were grown now, both in their twenties and quite frankly old enough to know better.

So I finally told them the truth about the trickster. Dean pretended to know what had been going on the whole time; Sam was just ready to take care of it and be done.

And we came up with a plan to distract it and then attack. The boys would pretend to split up, and Dean would stay at the college and pretend to barge in. The trickster, thinking he was alone, would go for Dean, and Sam and I would arrive as backup.

While Dean had hung around in the front of the building, Sam and I got Dean's car fixed. I knew it would only take a little air in the tires, I guessed the rims hadn't really bent too much, but Dean put up a fight when I told him that part of the plan.

"No!" he had said stubbornly. "Let Sam wait and I'll help you with the car."

"No," I had replied calmly, " the trickster will be expecting you to make Sam wait. Then if he charges in, the trickster will know something is up because Sam isn't the charge-in kind of guy."

"I could be," Sam had protested.

"And the trickster doesn't know us that well," Dean had chimed in.

"Dean stays," I had said firmly. "And the car will be fine. I know how to put air in the tires without blowing up the dang thing."

Dean had cast one last agonizing look in the direction of his beloved Impala. "Okay," he sighed, "but if she has a single scratch . . ."

"She won't," I had answered, rather tightly. I mean, really, I had been driving long before this punk was born.

But for all Dean's worrying, the plan went on without a hitch. Well, only a hitch or two. I had no been expecting that chainsaw-welding maniac or the porn stars on the stage. The chainsaw guy gave me a moment of panic, not sure that Sam had seen him, but the porn girls just frustrate me. Dean took way too long to get over them and get to work. I don't know what John had told him about slutty girls when he was younger, but I wondered if John would approve of his focus now. I mean, the boy was practically drooling, and he knew they weren't even real. Probably another reason Sam felt annoyed. I wondered if Dean's need for sex every got in the way of their hunting. I didn't see Dean as the kind of guy who would stay in at night to research when he could out and hunt chicks.

Now, I saw nothing wrong with playing a little poker or pool at night to earn some much-needed cash. That was a different story – we don't exactly have good pay and job security with this gig. But chasing after chicks – that only cost him money what with buying them drinks and food and such.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked from the front seat as we left the college campus. Dean was driving, and Sam had automatically taken the front seat beside him. It might have annoyed me, what with me being the oldest guy and they called me and I figured out the whole thing while they bickered, but I let it slide. No need to start pointing out little things after we had taken care of a trickster.

"I don't know," Dean admitted to his brother. "We got to stop by our room – our stuff is there, but then we can get the heck out of town."

We should have packed up before confronting the trickster, but it had taken me and Sam a while to repair the Impala and gather up extra weapons.

"My truck is near there," I said, leaning up to talk over the shoulders of the front seats. "Why don't we go to the next town, and you two can find a cheap motel room before you leave tomorrow? I'll drive back to my home –

"No, Bobby," Sam looked back at me. "You came for us, to help us. Let us put you up for the night."

Dean glanced over at Sam, a quick look that implied something about not having enough money.

"I have enough," Sam told his brother. He might have said something about it being polite to repay a favor, but he fell silent.

Dean turned onto the street where the hotel room was, and I said, "Look, if we can find a room with three beds, that's fine. Otherwise, I won't put you guys out."

Dean relaxed the least bit, but his voice was blunt as he said, "We paid for tonight with that room, but I don't want to risk getting caught, either. Next town will be fine. We'll just hurry to pack up."

"Good boys," I said, leaning back in my seat.

I thought that was a nice thing to say, a couple words of encouragement, but the atmosphere in the car turned icy. Dean shot another look at Sam, and Sam tried to look casual as he shifted in his seat, looking more stressed by the moment.

I watched the both of them, noting that Dean gripped the steering wheel even tighter as he pulled it to a stop by the curb, and Sam didn't even wait until the car was stopped before jumping out.

Had the words I said hit a nerve? I didn't see the problem – they were both boys and they had been good, therefore "Good boys" seemed appropriate. No need for anger or irritation or mad looks. Unless . . . had John said that to them before? Maybe on a hunt? Maybe when they had helped save him or done something that pleased him. What would he have said – "Well done, you two"? "Nice work, Dean and Sam"? Or simply "Good boys"?

I remained silently as I followed the two of them up the short stairs to their room.

I once heard someone say that nothing makes a criminal more nervous than returning to the scene of the crime. For these two, it was like returning to the scene of all the frustration and strife brought back those same emotions. Three steps into the room, Sam snapped at Dean,

"Gah, look at all your stuff! Dude, can you not clean up after yourself, or do you like living like a complete slob?"

"Can it, Martha Stewart," Dean retorted. "You'd be putting up curtains in the Impala if I let you."

"No, but I do pick up the trash every now and then," Sam grabbed a duffel bag and began stuffing crumpled clothes on the bed and floor into it. "If I left it up to you, we'd been searching through five feet of trash in the back seat to find the weapons."

"Guys," I spoke up, "the trickster is gone. There's no need to keep hounding each other."

Dean shrugged with a sneer that tried to turn into a smile but didn't make it. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother and kept packing.

I've packed up in hurry before; that's kind of a requisite with hunters: learning to leave in a hurry and not forget anything. But with these two, I thought we'd never go, especially since they spent every other second barking at each other.

"Dean, don't forget your dirty socks in the sink."

"At least my socks are clean," Dean retorted, collecting up shirts and throwing them towards his brother.

"And we're not taking your food," Sam decided, finishing with one duffel bag and moving onto another. "We leave it here, and maybe they'll throw it out on the street so a dog can get sick."

"That's not the only thing that would make a dog sick," Dean muttered.

It wasn't a good comeback, or one that even made sense. I stood there, watching them pack and argue. The earlier feeling by the car– the one where they tried to apologize to each other and couldn't, making me want to roll my eyes – that was gone now. It was like the afternoon all over again, except now we were trying to pack up and go, not figure out the problem.

"Guys," I crossed my arms, "we really need to hurry."

"We could," Sam grabbed a handful of clothes and stuffed them down in the bag, "if someone hadn't thrown his stuff all over the place."

"So I spread out?" Dean snapped. "I'm sorry I'm not all tight-assed about where I put my clothes, and cleaning up, and wanting each little thing in its right place. We're hunters, dude, not OCD chicks."

Sam straightened, and I could the storm gathering. So I stepped in, afraid we would never leave at this rate.

"Dean, go get your stuff in the bathroom. Sam, help me search through the cabinets."

"There is nothing in the cabinets," Sam said as Dean stomped into the bathroom.

But I had already opened a low cabinet. I blinked and pulled something hard and heavy out of the cabinet. "Is this yours?"

"My computer!" Sam rushed forward and grabbed it.

"That's a laptop?" I asked casually, pretending that I understood all that fancy computer stuff.

"Yeah, but they're calling them notebooks now," Sam slid the computer into a backpack-case thingy that had pockets and a strap. "You're not supposed to have them on your laps because they can overheat and burn you. Guess what genius let it get overheated on his lap and nearly dropped it on the floor?"

Sam jerked his head towards the bathroom where Dean was banging around.

"Well, you found it, so it's all okay," I searched through the rest of the cabinets, but didn't find anything.

"It's not okay," Sam argued. "It froze up on a porn site."

"You think the Feds will track you down for that?" I asked, glancing up at him. "As long as it's not kids or anything too bad, I think you're safe."

"That's not the point," Sam said adamantly. "This computer is supposed to be for research, not porn. And it's mine. The other got all torn up, and I had important college stuff on there. I had a little data backed up so I transferred it to this computer. I don't want Dean messing around with it and breaking it. I'm surprised he can figure out how to turn it on at all."

"You think I don't know anything about computers?" Dean charged out of the bathroom, holding what looked like a plastic bag filled with wet socks and other clothes.

"You thought myspace was a porn site," Sam said snidely.

"It should be," Dean insisted. "Come on, myspace? Sounds pretty dirty."

"Stay off my computer!" Sam clutched the backpack thing to his chest as if he was protecting something very special.

"You think you're the only one who gets to use it?"

"I'm the only one who can! If you did the research, we'd be sitting in libraries, doodling pictures of naked chicks!"

"I know how to do research," Dean snarled. "Dad and I did just fine without you and your high-tech computer."

"Yeah, but it took you forever," Sam returned. "With looking through books and having to talk to everyone and trying to find any scrap of information - no wonder he couldn't find The Demon faster!"

Then they both froze. They stood there, looking at each other, breathing very hard. I could tell that Sam's eyes were glassing with tears, but Dean just looked plain angry. They were seconds from attacking each other. But this time wouldn't be about money or silly pranks. This would be an all-and-all-out fight, and we did not have time for that.

"Boys!" I said in my sternest voice, hoping to distract them from jumping one another. "Get your stuff right now. We don't have time for this. We are leaving right now without another word. Dean, you follow me in the Impala. Sam, you're riding with me."

"But –" Sam began, only I held up a hand.

"Both of you move right now," I ordered.

They glared at each other silently, but then they grabbed their stuff, Sam still clutching his computer bag, and headed for the door.

I sighed before following them. And I had thought killing the trickster would be the hard part.


	2. Chapter 2 Talking with Sam

AN: Thanks for all the great reviews! I loved hearing from you, and I appreciate your support. This story is being longer than I magined.

Give me any ideas or criticism or suggestions. I'm still working out the kinks of this kind of fandom.

Thanks!

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With the boys' help, I got their stuff into their car, keeping the fighting between them down to a minimum. I told Sam to go get into my truck, and with one last hostile look at Dean, he did so, slamming the door of the truck with a little more force than was necessary.

"Follow me," I told Dean.

"I can find the way there," he objected, but I gave him a stern look.

"We are not speeding tonight. Sometimes we have to, but not tonight. I don't want to look suspicious, and I sure as hell don't want a ticket."

Dean nodded reluctantly and got in the Impala. I pulled out of the parking space and waited until I saw Dean's car behind him before  
heading towards the highway.

The trip to the next town was fairly quiet. I saw a car or two going in the opposite direction, but we seemed to be the only people on the  
highway. It wasn't that late, but small college towns don't seem to have too many people running around at night. Sam sat next to me, his  
arms crossed and staring out into the night with a stubborn look on his usually calm face. I had no idea what he was thinking and after a few minutes, I said casually,

"So you boys doing all right? Other than this case?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," he answered automatically.

I glanced in the rearview window. Dean was riding my tail, his eyes wide and determined in the red brake lights of my truck. That was something else he needed to be lectured about – driving safety. I slowed down gradually until we were going 50 on a 60mph highway. Dean looked frustrated, almost angry, but he backed off my tail and kept a good distance back. I did not speed up; this way I would have a while to talk to Sam. He might be silent, but I could tell that he wanted to get everything off his chest, to say what was really bothering him.

"Look," I said in a quiet voice, "I know the hunt gets hard after a while. On the road, fighting so much evil, not enough money, and I know you guys don't have a real home to go back to."

Sam sniffed suddenly, but when I glanced at him, his face was under tight control though his eyes were getting red-rimmed.

I continued carefully, "No one blames you for getting on each other nerves. Heck, if I had to be with my brother that much –"

Sam turned to look at me. "You have a brother?"

"Yeah, a few years older," I answered.

"Does he live near by?" Sam was interested.

I waited two seconds and shifted lanes, even though no one else was on the highway, before I answered, "He's in prison."

Sam froze. Then he sniffed again and stared back out of the windshield. But he was very pale, and his breathing got shallow and quick.

"Are you worried about Dean?" I asked, still pretending to be casual.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, sounding oddly choked up. "We try to play it safe, but Dean – you know, he just . . ."

"Just what?" I prodded.

"He – I'm just – I don't want to talk about it," Sam said defensively.

"Fair enough," I nodded and concentrated on driving. Silently, I counted: one mississppi, two mississippi, three –

"He's completely reckless!" the words burst out of Sam. And like a dam breaking, he couldn't seem to stop himself from getting it all  
out. "He keeps doing these stupid stunts. This job is dangerous enough, but he takes it further than that. He's wanted by the police, and  
then he got himself on the news, and the Feds are after us, and any chance of us ever living normal lives is gone. And when he's not  
screwing everything up, he's at the bar drinking and hitting on girls like he's some kind of really smooth player. And because  
I'm not cheering him on and shouting Score!' every time he gets another phone number or makes out with some chick, he thinks  
I'm up-tight and won't have any fun."

I hid my smile at his upset expression and nodded along. "That must be hard."

"It was, and then with Dad dying, too. I was all broken up about that, especially after the way I used to fight with Dad. We couldn't stop  
arguing, and everything he did made me mad, and I kept fighting with him until –"

Sam sniffed harder than before and swiped clumsily at his eyes.

"But Dean . . .?" I tried to keep him talking.

"Dean just clammed up after he died. Dean denied that he wasn't okay, and he was fine, and he was dealing with it, and then he pulls  
over to the side of the road one day and tells me that he thinks it was all his fault. For weeks he stayed silent, and then he tells me that he  
thinks he was responsible for Dad's death, completely responsible. So first he won't talk to me, and then he unloads it whenever he  
wants."

"People deal with grief differently, " I commented. I saw the sign for the town, ten miles ahead, and I slowed down a little more so we would have more time to talk. In the mirror, I saw Dean slam his hands on the steering wheel in frustration at how slow we were going.

Sam just went on, unaware. "It's other stuff, too. Before he died, Dad told him – well, you know."

"Yeah, I do," I said gravely.

"Well, Dean waits forever to tell me that. I asked over and over again if he knew anything, if Dad told him anything, and each time Dean said no. He lied to me, right to my face. If our places were switched, if I was the one hiding something that big from him and he found out, he would pound me into the pavement. He would yell at me and hit me until I knew that keeping a secret from him was never an option. But he thinks he can keep all the secrets he likes because he's older and in charge and Dad trusted him more, and –"

Two tears rolled down Sammy's face, and he swallowed hard, wrapping his arms around his torso to comfort himself.

"That must seem very unfair," I noted, surprising myself with how diplomatic I could be. I should run for public office.

"He thinks he right about everything," Sam said hoarsely. "He gets mad if I don't go along with whatever he says. Like one time, I  
didn't like this hunter, and Dean did, and I told him he was just trying to replace Dad, and he turned around and punched me in the face."

I started, surprised. "Like he hit you after the demon left you?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted. "I know he was mad, both times, but he won't ever stop and talk about it. He just gets angrier and angrier until he explodes. I never see it coming until he loses it completely. Dad was never like that."

"No? He didn't get angry?"

"Oh, sure, he got mad all the time, but you could see it coming with him, like a storm gathering. And I knew when I started arguing with him that he would lose his temper in the end, but not just at the drop of a hat like Dean. I keep wondering when he's going to lose it or if  
he's keeping another secret from me."

He was fiddling with something in his hand, and I glanced at it, as inconspicuously as I could. It was the little charm I had given him.

"You still have that?" I asked, pleasantly surprised. "I was afraid you'd lost it."

"No," he shook his head firmly as his hand tightened around the charm, "I keep it with me everywhere I go. Even in the shower and when I sleep. I don't want to get possessed again."

I pulled off the highway, watching Dean's car follow me. San was still sniffing, but I felt like we had gotten through a lot in such a  
short time.

We found a motel advertising rooms for $29 under a blinking vacancy sign. I pulled in front of the office, tell Sam, "Just wait here."

He nodded silently, and I had barely gotten out of my truck when Dean out of his car. "What was that?" he snarled.

"What was what?" I replied calmly.

"That driving. Was there a reason we were crawling along, or is that how you drive normally?"

"I was just taking my time," I told him, refusing to get riled up. "Sam was talking to me, and I thought it was important that he have time to finish."

Dean shot a furious look over at my parked truck. "Whatever he told you, forget it. He's always saying too much, just trusting anyone who comes along."

"Dean –"

"No, let's just get a room and crash."

"It's only 10:30," I reminded him as we walked towards the office.

"Well, we've been working nights, trying to figure this thing out," Dean snapped.

"I'll go into the office," I decided. He turned to me, ready to protest, but I held a hand up. "No, I don't want you yelling at the  
clerk. You stay in the car so you can follow me when I come out and get your things for tonight."

Dean blew his breath out in an angry huff, but he headed towards his car, stopping only to say, "Let me get you the money for –"

"We'll settle that tomorrow," I decided. "Let's just get in for the night."

"Fine," he stalked back to his car and wrenched the driver's door open with a screech of rusty hinges.

I headed into the office. The guy behind the counter looked half-asleep, but he roused himself long enough to ask, "King-sized or doubles?"

"You got a room for three?" I leaned against the worn table.

"You got kids?" the man reached for his ledger.

"Yeah, two boys. Well, big boys, and –"

"Well, I got a room with a queen and a double," the guy glanced over his ledger. "If you want, you can have some extra pillows to put in between them. That's a trick a lady told me. She had four kids, two boys, two girls. She said if you put enough pillows in between them on the bed, the kids feel like they're in separate beds and won't fight or kick each other in the night."

I wasn't sure if the guys wanted to share a bed, especially with Sam being so tall, but I didn't want to shell out an extra $29, and I  
wasn't sleeping on the floor.

"Yeah, that will be fine," I said. I figured that Dean would continue to be upset with me for the rest of the night. Might as well give him a  
real reason to be mad.

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And mad he was, from the moment we all got in the room.

"Are you crazy?" he demanded, dropping his bag on the floor. "I thought we said three beds."

"They didn't have any," I told him, turning on the light. It was a medium sized room, not too nice but not too shabby either. There was a  
small TV against the wall with a sign announcing that it got fifteen channels.

"I guess I'll be sleeping on the floor," Dean griped as he stalked into the room.

"I'll call them and see what I can do," I said, wondering how I would keep from strangling him. Funny, but until tonight I would have  
said that I liked Dean a little more than Sam. I thought Dean and I had more in common, and a part of me was always waiting for Sam to start spouting the fancy college talk. That wasn't fair, but I was losing patience with Dean quickly. But I needed to hear his side of the last few months.

"Dean, why don't you go ahead and take a shower while I call the office and see if they got a cot I can sleep on?"

"No, Bobby," Sam began, but I cut him off.

"Go ahead, Dean. Sam and I will get everything out for tonight."

"Fine," Dean grabbed his bag and headed towards the bathroom, "you two are so close and chummy now."

After the door was shut and we heard the water running, Sam turned to me. "Sorry, he gets kind of short with people. We spend a lot of time alone, and he's . . ." Sam trailed off and shrugged apologetically.

The clerk guy arrived with extra pillows. I wondered if he ran the motel by himself, also serving as the maid in the morning. But I thanked him and took the five extra pillows. Sam was far enough inside that the guy couldn't see him, or I was sure the motel guy would have a comment about how big my "big boy" really was. Hey, I think I'm a good height for a guy, and Sam seems to tower above me.

"Are we going to have a pillow fight?" Sam asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his sad mouth. He still looked overwhelmed and worn-out, but I appreciated his attempt at humor.

"You two can have pillows in between you on the big bed," I tossed the pillows on the king-size. "That way you won't roll over on each  
other."

"Look, dude, Dean won't want to –"

"Last time your dad brought you and Dean to my house, you shared a bed," I said coldly. "You two were thirteen and nine, and if I remember right, Dean complained that he was too big to share a bed. I would have let one of you sleep on the sofa, but your dad wouldn't have any of it. I remember he grabbed Dean by the ear and threatened to tan his hide if he didn't show better manners."

"Oh, yeah," Sam's smile grew the least bit. "I kind of remember that, too. I liked sharing a bed with him because we could talk quietly  
into the night without Dad hearing us and telling us to go to sleep. I think in the end Dean didn't mind, but he wanted to put up a fuss  
then because he thought he should be like one of the hunters and get his own bed. While we were on the road, we always shared a bed, until I turned sixteen and got so tall. I used to kick in my sleep, and Dean didn't like it, but I was little back then. Dad said it was fine  
until that night I kicked Dean out of the bed." Sam's eyes turned soft as he remembered. "I didn't mean to, but Dean fell out of the  
bed and thought he was being attacked by a demon. He grabbed his knife and started yelling in the dark. I woke up and turned on the light, and he figured out that I had kicked him. I tried to apologize, but he lost his temper and started punching me, putting the knife aside first, thankfully. Instead of calling for Dad, I fought back, and we broke the lamp beside the hotel bed as we banged around the room. And Dad came storming over to see what the problem was, and then he saw the lamp, and then the people below us called to complain about the noise."

"I take it John was not pleased."

Sam shook his head with a wryly grin. "Dad was so mad at us. I tried to explain what had happened, but he wouldn't listen. He spanked us both, Dean a little harder because he started it, and then made us get back into bed. That was the last time we shared a bed, but unfortunately not the last time he punished us."

"He was tough on you?" I asked.

"Tough?" Sam gave a short laugh. "For the first nine years of my life, I thought the only response you got when you told an adult No!'  
was to be turned over their knee and smacked until you cried. For the first year of college, I dreaded that he would show up and give me a whipping in the middle of my dorm, just for defying him. But by the second year, I just wanted him to show up."

Sam lowered his head again and sniffed.

"I'm sure John meant well," I told him, hoping that would help.

The tears welled up in his eyes, and he nodded sadly. "I know he did."

I wanted to say more, to talk about how John used to talk about his boys. Every time I asked John how his kids were, the answer usually went the same way, "Oh, Dean's just like me, a good hunter. But Sammy, well, Sammy's the smart one. Reads and thinks way too much, but he's more like Mary than I could ever imagine. Both of them, good boys."

Before I could share the memory, the bathroom opened, and Dean came out. He was wearing gym shorts and an old tee shirt, and his hair was wet and standing up in spikes. He still looked upset.

"Where's the cot?" he asked, glad to find something to fight about.

Sam stood, and I said calmly, "Sam, you go take a shower. I want to talk with Dean for a few moments."

"About what?" Dean demanded. "Anything you have to say, he can hear."

"That's okay," Sam reached for his bag. "I'll take a shower."

He hurried to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Left alone with me, Dean glared, his green eyes snapping with anger. "So what do you want, Bobby?"

I motioned for Dean to sit in the only chair. "I think we need to talk."

"We don't," Dean said shortly, but he sat down anyway.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself before we started talking.


	3. Chapter 3 Discussion with Dean

AN: Here's my next chapter. Thank you for all the reviews. I read them all and tried to take them into consideration when writing this. I'm having more fun than I ever thought possible. I'm an English Grad student so having to write Bobby's hunter, poor-man, kind of backwoods POV was challenging. For those of you who have read my Peter Pan story, I'm much more comfortable writing that high, British, Jane Austen rhetoric.

But tell me what you think about it.

Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this nor do I make any money off it.

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The water started inside the bathroom, and I watched Dean carefully. I thought he might not want to talk if he thought Sam could hear him, but that didn't seem to be what was holding him back. Dean still looked angry. A stubborn, tight-mouth kind of mad that I swear looked exactly like John. I remembered disagreeing with John on a few issues, and towards the end of any argument, he would look like that. Silent, furious, but refusing to say anything. It was John all over, except Dean was younger and I've always had this thing about kids respecting their elders. As a kid and even into my twenties, I was never allowed to sass my aunts or uncles or any of my parents' friends. I remember one time as a fifteen-year-old I had smarted back to my dad's hunting buddy, and my dad had smacked me hard on the back of the head and ordered me to apologize or else.

But Dean sat rigidly in his chair, like a man about to be electrocuted, and fixed me with a cold gaze.

"I was talking to your brother –"

"About me, right?" he angrily interrupted. "Man, Sam's always running his mouth. I try to keep our problems quiet, and he goes around advertising them like they were everyone's freakin' business."

"I'm not everyone," I reminded him quietly. "Sam was upset about what all you've gone through, and he needed to talk about it."

"Well, I don't," Dean leaned back in his chair with a don't-want-to-can't-make-me attitude.

"I thought it was fair for you to get a chance to tell your side of the story," I said patiently. They were a handful all right. No wonder John always looked so tired.

Dean shrugged. "Nothing to tell."

"Fine," I shrugged as well. "It's just that Sam said you were reckless and he got fed up with wondering what stunt you would pull next, but if you got nothing to say to that . . ." I pretended to not really care one way or the other.

Dean stared at me with cold, intense eyes. His jaw was clenched, and I knew he was fighting against saying anything. I wasn't sure, but I guessed that Dean couldn't be waited out by silence like Sam. Sam would talk if no one else would; Dean needed a little prodded. So I prodded.

"Sam was probably right. He knows you better than I do, of course. But I am sorry he's so worried about you. Must be hard for him, especially when you didn't tell him about what your dad told you. Maybe Sam thought that was a huge mistake on your part."

That did it – I knew I had pushed Dean over the edge.

"Hard for him?" Dean exploded, gripping the arms of his chair so tight I thought he might break them off altogether. "This is hard for him?"

"That's what I gathered from what he said," I replied calmly.

"Ohhh," Dean looked around the room wildly, so frustrated he couldn't find the right words. "You – you don't know what it's been like."

"Then you tell me," I replied. I was afraid he might clam up again, but Dean wasn't that sort of person. Once he got started, he didn't stop.

"I had good reasons not to tell him," he snapped. "Dad told me, and Dad wanted me to watch out for Sammy. I wasn't going to tell him at all, but after that demon virus scare, I thought he should know. So against my better judgement, I told him. And what happened? Exactly what I thought would happen. He freaked out."

"That's understandable," I remarked.

"No, I get it," Dean stared straight at me. "If I found out something like that, I'd be pretty freaked out too. I was freaked when Dad told me. But I handled it, I did the right thing and didn't let it get to me. But Sammy – he hears, and he runs. Just up and goes off like I don't exist anymore. Then I have to track him down. I swear, I wanted to light into as soon as I found him. How stupid does he have to be to do something like that? If I hadn't found him, he would have died with that psycho hunter. So I'm sorry about keeping the secret, but right after Dad's death, I didn't think Sam could handle it. I waited and he still went crazy."

"I understand why you did it," I said, trying to sound supportive.

Dean glared at me, not liking my encouraging tone. "And it's not just the secret. Him being mad about it – that I get. It's his whole attitude the rest of the time. He's always expecting the worst to happen. I know the secret has been hard and I know Jess dying really bothered him. It was awful – I get that, I really do. But he mopes around with this whole gloom and doom thing hanging over his head. He makes me look like freakin' Pollyanna!"

I tried not to smile, remembering the Disney movie that I had watched as a kid and hated.

He scoffed, seeing my amusement. "Yeah, I know that sounds stupid, but it's the truth. Every time something happens, I have to pull Sam back from the edge of despair before he jumps off the cliff. He turns the whole 'I might go evil, and Dean will have to kill me as a last resort' to 'I am evil, and Dean will kill me in the next week.' Now anytime he gets mad or upset, he thinks he's going evil. Come on, everyone gets pissed sooner or later. Doesn't mean we're possessed."

"But he did get possessed," I pointed out.

"Yeah," Dean growled, "and I'm still pissed about that. I don't know when he got possessed, but I have a feeling that all this moping helped the demon get inside him. He probably didn't even fight it – just stared at with those sad puppy brown eyes and let her in!"

"That's a little much," I commented, careful not to stop him from talking.

"Sam never knows when to stop feeling all that crap!" Dean threw up his hands in exasperation. "I know he's all touchy-feelly and girl-like, but come on. Anytime anything goes wrong, it's the end of the world. Like when we were working that case with people killing because they thought an angel came to them. Well, Sam is so sure it's an angel, and I'm a little skeptical, and he gets all wounded. He tells me that he believes in angels, and I'm fine with that even though it didn't protect Mom, but Sammy can do what he wants."

I shot him a quick glance. I thought he might get choked up bringing up Mary, but Dean was too busy griping about his brother.

"So, in the end, we find that it's a dead priest haunting, and we take care of it. But Sam gets all shaken up and then decides that he was wrong about what he believed. He could have just shrugged it off as 'Well, it wasn't an angel this time, but it might be next time.' Instead, he decides to toss out his whole belief thing, just throw it out the window because one case one time didn't prove that angels exist."

"Maybe he thought you would get on to him about it," I mentioned. "You know, remind him that he was wrong."

"Maybe, but it keeps happening. A single case, and he doesn't know what to believe. Good-bye angels, hello new desperation. That whole crisis of belief thing that drives people crazy. And don't get me started about the whole trust thing."

"He doesn't trust you?"

"No! He gets these crazy visions, and we drop whatever we're doing to go save the people in his visions. I never question them, try not to think about where they might come from or who's behind it – I just go with him. But he won't trust me. I have instincts, too, whether he wants to admit it or not. I've been doing this for a while, and Dad always said I was the better hunter, but Sam doesn't want to listen to me. Like that case with the dead chick's boyfriend bringing her back to life. I told Sam I knew it was a haunting, but he wouldn't believe me. With him and his visions, it's absolute truth, and he's sure he's right. With me, it's like, well, you might be right, but it's just a lucky guess. You know, Dad, trusted me enough to tell me the secret, but Sam won't trust me long enough to just do our job."

"Trust is hard," I said, wondering if I would ever get these two figured out.

"I get tired of dealing with his crap," Dean growled. "He wants me to share my feelings. With Dad, Sam was hounding me for months to admit how I felt. I was angry, okay? I thought I should have stopped him from dying, I thought it should have been me, and I felt guilty! Can't I ever just feel something without talking about it to death? So I stayed quiet. I didn't run off and almost get killed. I didn't go get myself possessed and try to kill other people. I stayed where I should, I did my job, and I tried to keep everything together. But Sammy doesn't get it. One of us has to stay together, in control, to figure things out, and if he's going to be all mopey and emotional, then it has to be me!"

"Dean," I tried to reason, but he was too angry to listen. I wondered if this was how he looked in the heat of a fight. If I was demon and saw that look aimed at me, I'd take the fastest bus back to hell.

"And this is the thanks I get," he slammed his fist on the arm of chair. "No 'Thanks, dude, you've done a lot' or 'That must have been hard – Dad put a lot on you, and I understand if you need time to get over it'. No, no thanks or consideration for me. Just blame me for everything. Yeah, maybe I'm reckless. I'm holding so much together, something was bound to get out of hand. Never thinking about how hard it is for me, Sam goes ahead and complains about my drinking, and my hitting on chicks, and my food, and my clothes, and my porn. I get so fed up with his whining and his desperate the-world-going-to-end-because-of-me crap, but do I complain? No! I shut the hell up and do my job."

"But you wanted to do the job," I reminded him. Good Lord, I was turning into Dr. Phil with all this psychology talk!

"Oh, sure, he got to go off to college and I got stuck with Dad," Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "They had a big fight, and Sammy went off, thinking Dad would never forgive him or speak to him again. But do you know who stayed home and put up with the old man? Yeah, it was me, again. You think Dad was bad back when you knew him? You have no idea how pissed he was, how everything was screwed up after Sam left. He and Dad used to argue, and Dad would lay down the law, and Sam would sulk. They would start fighting, and I tried to stop it, and Dad would send me upstairs to go to bed, but I could hear them yelling, shaking the whole house as they fought about stupid stuff like Sam taking the SATs or Dad drinking too much. But then Sam left, and Dad had no one to fight with. So he turned on me. For the next two years, he picked on everything I did. He would gripe about my techniques and my hunting and my focus and my tracking skills, pointing out each little thing I did wrong."

"John was in the Marines," I reminded him.

"Yeah, the Marines would have been an easy ride after living alone with him for two years. He would drill me for hours, lecturing about my shooting and staking and how I kept the weapons and did I learn my Latin words for the week? One time I left a silver stake outside because I was busy cleaning the guns, and he found out. After taking my head off with his yelling, he made me run around the rented house, in the rain, a hundred times without stopping, with eighty pounds of gear strapped to my back. I could barely walk after that, but he made me stand at attention in the living room while he drilled me in Latin. I missed a few words so he grounded me until I got it right. Grounded me! I was twenty-five by then, and he grounded me like I was fifteen. But I couldn't complain, or he'd get on my case even more, so I shut my mouth and did what he said. Meanwhile, Sam's off partying it up at college."

"You could left," I don't know what made me say that. The words just came out, and I knew they were unfair as soon as I said them. Dean would have never left his father anymore than Sam would stop feeling things.

"No, I couldn't," Dean replied. "Dad had already lost Mom and Sammy. He couldn't lose me, too." He swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

I took a deep breath, wondering where to go now. With only wanting them to talk, I had successfully taken these boys apart, without a good idea how to put them back together. I was beginning to understand why John chose to be their drill sergeant. That seems a whole heck of a lot easier than dealing with feelings. As long as you were snapping out orders and handing out punishments, you didn't have to worry about how they were doing on the inside. I should have never got them talking in the first place. Women can yammering and sigh over feelings all they want and still be okay – but there's a reason guys don't talk about emotions. It's a downward spiral that's impossible to stop once you get started, and we were spinning down very fast.

So, I said the only thing I could think of, the only thing that made sense after all this talking. "Dean, are you really angry because you had to stay with your dad and not leave, or are you angry because Sam left?"

Dean blinked quickly, his face still set in rage.

"It's because Sam left, isn't it?" I said softly

"Yes! After it's all said and done, he left us. He gets to pick and chose when he's a part of the family and when he goes off by himself. And I think that sucks!"

The room fell silent after his declaration. He sat in his chair, breathing hard and fighting against showing any sign of emotion, which did not work, considering how his face kept cracking and he could not stop blinking.

I began spinning out conversations in my head, thinking of all the things I could say and what he might say in response. I could remind him that growing up was hard and Sam needed time away to understand how much he needed his family, but Dean would probably retort that if Sam needed him so much, why did Sam keep running off? I might say that John did the best he did, but that might seem like I was condoning John's behavior which would upset Dean or like I was criticizing John's parenting which would make Dean furious. Hey, I'm no dummy. A guy might gripe on and on about his wife and their problems, but you agree or disagree, and suddenly he's ready to rip you apart. And the same goes for dead fathers.

"Family's hard," I heard myself say, completely without meaning to. "You're always going to have problems, and you're going to have to work through them."

Dean snorted. "That's all you got? Some advice."

"You watch it, boy," I said sternly. "Just because I don't have a ready answer doesn't mean you get to smart off to me."

Dean opened his mouth, probably to say something he would regret, but the bathroom door opened, and Sam came out.

His hair was wet, and he wore flannel pants and a tee shirt. He looked a little better after a shower, but he still seemed tired and worn-out.

However, Dean took that frustration with me and turned it towards his brother. "You take a long enough shower there? There are three of us here, after all."

"You were talking," Sam shot back, rubbing his damp hair with a small towel. "I was trying to give you some space."

"And suddenly, you're all concerned about giving me space," Dean retorted.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked, wrinkling his forehead in confusion.

"With you, you're either up in my face or two hundred miles away."

Sam blinked, trying to figure out what Dean meant. "Is this about when I left? Dude, I told you I needed time to think about what Dad told you. You said you understood, but apparently, that just meant you were going to hold onto it until you wanted to throw it back in my face."

"Well, if you're telling Bobby stuff, I can to!" Dean retorted.

"I was just talking about how I felt!" Sam flung the towel onto the king-sized bed.

"Yeah, and that's all you ever talk about," Dean got to his feet to face his brother. "You and your feelings. I am so sick of hearing about how you feel. Why don't you take your feelings and your stupid laptop and shove 'em up your ass?"

"Why don't you shut up?" Sam challenged. "Every time you start talking, it's like I've pushed the stupid button on a talking doll."

I wasn't sure if that was a really good insult, but I guess the word _stupid_ riled Dean up more than anything else.

"You shut up!" he snarled at Sam.

"Why should you care what I say? You can't understand me – I don't speak stupid," Sam jeered.

And then Dean pretty much lost it. He half-grabbed, half-shoved his brother, but Sam was ready and grabbed and shoved back.

It was not like most fights I've seen. Those are usually in bars with guys stumbling around and swinging at faces and missing and tripping over. The boys' fight liked more like shoving match, more intent on pushing the other guy down than inflicting harm.

"Boys," I warned. "That's enough."

But they didn't listen, and the fight got more violent. They shoved and grunted and jabbed at each other, and then they were swinging each other around the room and using these kung-fu kicks that I had not seen a lot. I guess John was more into the modern fighting that I am; I'm the old punch-and-shoot type guy.

I kept telling them to stop, but they weren't listening to me, and they were getting more and more out of hand.

And then it happened. Sam kicked Dean in the ribs, and Dean swore, a wild gleam in his eyes. Dean charged at him, and Sam fell back against the wall. Sam lost his footing as he slammed into the wall, and he slid sideways. He fell against the television.

The TV wobbled for a moment and then it toppled off the stand.

It hit the floor with a tremendous crash, banging like you wouldn't believe and shattering glass on the thin carpet.


	4. Chapter 4 Sam's Grief

AN: This is the chapter where the corporal punishment comes in. I've said this once and I'll say it again – if you don't like it, don't read and do not review! I've read the same warnings on other stories whether they be slash, torture, violence, incest, you name it. You have been warned.

Other than that, please enjoy and let me know what you think.

Thanks for all the fantastic reviews. I've loved hearing from you. I'll try to get the last part up as quickly as I can.

Disclaimer: Still don't own or make any money.

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The fight stopped then. Both guys jerked to a standstill and stared down at the broken TV.

"Boys!" I said angrily.

They both looked ashamed for a few seconds, Dean more than Sam. But then Sam glared at his brother.

"You pushed me!" he said hotly. "And you started it, too. You and your stupid temper!"

"Oh, shut up," Dean yelled back, snarling the words out.

I kept staring at the TV. I had a small one at my house, mainly for watching the news and occasionally some car racing. My TV had cost around $120 when I bought it eight years ago. This TV was twice as big and newer, probably at least $300, if not more. That was a big deal, a very big deal. That was something the manager would remember, especially if the Feds tracked the boys this way.

"_What? Oh, two brothers? Yeah, I remember them. They broke a TV, just knocked it right off the stand."_

The telephone rang out, startling both brothers and making me blink unexpectedly. Sam looked at me with wide brown eyes, and Dean swore softly under his breath as the phone continued to ring.

But it was obvious that they expected me to answer it for neither made a move towards the phone. I was closer to it so I grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"We heard a crash!" a woman's voice exclaimed. "Are you all right up there?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, careful to keep my voice polite. "My – er, my kids were roughhousing a little and knocked a few things over. We'll try to keep it down."

"Oh," she hesitated before adding, "well, it is getting late . . ."

"Sorry, ma'am," I added, very politely. "We'll try to quiet down. Time for them to go to bed anyway."

I hung up and turned to face the guys. Sam looked guilty, and Dean saw him glance down, but that just seemed to make Dean even angrier.

"Probably some old bag," he gestured to the phone, "sticking her nose in our business. Gah, I get so tired of everyone giving us crap."

"We made a lot of noise," Sam told him. "She was right to be concerned."

"Oh, sure," Dean snorted, "take her side!"

But I had had enough. I could tell that they were going to keep arguing if I let them, and suddenly I felt overwhelmingly frustrated with both of them. All their arguing and fighting and breaking things, especially at a time when they needed to be careful and watchful, not bickering.

"That's it," I stepped towards them.

It was interesting to see the different ways they responded to a physical threat. Sam drew back the slightest bit, his hands going in front of him more protectively than defensively. Dean stepped forward, his feet in a sturdy stance, his hands going into fists, ready for a brawl. I ignored both of their poses and wrapped a hand around Dean's collar before reaching for Sam's.

"What are you doing?" Dean protested, though he didn't really pull away from me.

"What I should have done earlier when all this arguing was going on," I said shortly, marching them towards the larger bed.

Dean shot a furious glance at Sam, and Sam tried to look mad at him, but he kept casting worried glances back over his shoulder at me. Which was exactly what I wanted from him. A little fear can be healthy at times.

I stopped at the foot of the bed, wondering which one to deal with first. I wanted to reprimand Dean first since he was the oldest, and he _had _started it. But my gut instinct said to go with Sam, the more accepting of the two, and I went with that feeling. But a little lecturing first.

"I don't know how you boys handle fights," I said, still keeping a firm grip on the back of both of their necks. "But this is ridiculous. You do not start pushing, you do not break things, and you do not attract attention."

"But he started it!" Sam protested, sounding about eight years old.

Normally, he was taller than me, but the way he stood, shoulder hunched down and head bowed, I felt both taller and much more in control.

"I don't care who started it. You two have been egging each other on all day, and I've had enough. I don't know how your father used to deal with your behavior, but I doubt he would have let you carry on like this."

Sam sniffed, but Dean flashed furious eyes on me.

"Don't talk about my dad," he ordered.

I stood my ground, not about to be scared by this smart-mouthed guy. "I'll talk about him all I like. He was my friend, for the most part, and he didn't let you boys get away with such stuff at my house, and I don't think he'd let you do it now if was he here, now would he?"

Dean still glared, but said nothing.

"Would he?" I asked, louder and giving each boy a shake.

"No, sir," Sam muttered. I could tell he was going to get worked up if I let it go on much longer. Dean looked at him, and immediately I could tell that Dean stopped being angry at his brother and was just angry at me. Well, it was a start.

"Dean," I made my voice stern as possible, "go sit in that chair in the corner."

"Why?" Dean challenged.

"Don't ask, just go," I said, still very stern. "And don't get out of it until I call you."

Dean looked me, suspicious, but he reluctantly went to the chair and sat down. He kept his eyes on me, watching me warily, wondering what I would do to Sam.

I thought about it for only a second. Truth was, Sam was taller than me, and I was pretty strong, but I wasn't sure that it would be feasible to put him over my knee.

Yes, even the thought of what I planned to do surprised me, but I was past thinking by that point. Time for action.

"Lean over the edge of the bed," I told Sam. "Front down."

He turned incredulous eyes on me, not believing that I could be serious as he rightly guessed what I planned to do.

"What?" Dean asked sharply.

"Quiet, Dean," I ordered. "Sam, lean over the edge of the bed. Right now, or it will be even worse."

"But – but Bobby," he whispered, shooting Dean a scared look. "Come on, I'm twenty-three."

"If you had acted like it, you wouldn't be here," I told him, refusing to budge. "This is not a negotiation, Sam. Over the bed, right now."

Dean was shifting in his seat, debating whether or not to come to his brother's rescue or not.

"You sit still, Dean, or your turn will be even longer," I threatened.

Dean froze in his seat.

Sam swallowed, looked desperately at his brother one last time, then slowly lowered himself over the edge of the bed. He was so tall that his knees rested on the floor while his torso lay over the bed.

"Scoot up a little," I told him, my voice still hard.

Sam wriggled his body up until his knees came up off the bed. His rear was in a perfect position, high enough for me not to have to stoop.

I began unbuckling my belt.

Hearing the sound, Sam looked up with a gasp. Across the room, Dean's eyes were huge, and he looked about two seconds away from jumping up and attacking me.

I had thought briefly about just using my hand, but I decided that my belt would make a much better impact. I wouldn't have to swing as many times to get the same result, and a belt seemed appropriate for their ages. Don't get me wrong, I could have packed a pretty mean hand-swing if I had to, but I decided for the belt for today.

Sam tried one last time to reason with me. "Bobby, please . . . I didn't mean to knock over the TV . . . really I didn't."

"This isn't about just that," I said adamantly as I pulled my belt through the loops. "This is about your whole attitude. You two have been too reckless and careless, and you have been moping around, Sam, or so Dean tells me. He's afraid it's affecting your performance on the job."

"He's lying!" Sam's voice went up at the end, a desperate attempt to stop what he knew was coming.

"Not about this," I told him, doubling up my belt and holding the ends so the buckle wouldn't hit him. "So you stay still, and I'll get this over as soon as possible."

I brought the belt down on his pajama-covered bottom.

"Oohh!" he wailed, jerking his head up. Across the room, Dean looked absolutely murderous, griping the chair tight and staring at me with hateful eyes. I gave him a glance that said to stay put and then gave Sam another lick of the belt.

"Ow!" Sam protested. And when I gave him another, "Ow! Bobby, I'm sorry."

"For what?" I asked, laying down another lick.

"For – for fighting with Dean. Ahh! Come on, Bobby, I'm too old for this. Ow!"

"What else?" I continued belting him in slow, methodic swings.

"Uh," Sam cast around frantically for anything to say. "For yelling at Dean . . Oh! . . . for calling him stupid. For arguing with him at the other hotel. Ow, Bobby!"

"And?" I did not stop.

"I don't know," I could hear the tears in Sam's voice though I couldn't see his face. "For – for being so much tr-trouble!"

He started crying in earnest, his shoulders shaking as he buried his face in his hands on the bed. But he had not moved once to try to escape the swats.

"Hey," I put a hand down on his trembling shoulder. "You are not trouble. You're a very gifted, very special young man with lots of talents. This is just to get you back on track. And we're almost done here."

I stepped back, returning to my stern voice. "What else?"

"I can't th-think of anything," Sam hiccuped. "Maybe for fighting again tonight? For yelling at Dean while we were packing?"

"Good enough," I said, laying a few more licks on Sam's backside. He returned to his crying, trying to muffle his sobs in his hands. I didn't really have a list of sins I wanted him to name off – but I had a suspicion that whatever was eating at Sam would come out while he was being punished. Maybe if he listed his own sins, he would feel like he had been reprimanded for them and they would stop bothering him so much. "Anything else?"

"I'm sorry for worrying about turning evil," he added, gulping in lungfuls of air. "I'm sorry for getting possessed –"

"Hey, that wasn't his fault!" Dean objected from his chair.

"Dean," I frowned at him.

"It wasn't!" Dean protested.

"Not another word," I warned him before returning to Sam.

"It – it was," Sam admitted between wrenching sobs. "I keep running off 'cause I'm-I'm scared. Scared of hurting someone. You, Jo, Dean – I keep hurting people. I don't mean to, but I do."

I didn't have the heart to keep going. I had only given him about twenty-five licks, and I had planned on at least thirty, a nice round number that would give him time to get out all his grief, but I couldn't keep going. I put the belt on the bed and place my hand back on his shaking shoulders. "All right, it's over now," I told him. "Why don't you sit up?"

Ever so slowly, Sam pushed himself up. His face was tinged red and streaked with tears that keep tumbling down his cheeks. He sat down gingerly on the bed and began wiping at tears while trying to keep his sobs back, looking all of about six year old.

I sat down on the bed beside him and tentatively put an arm around his shoulder. I was sure he would push me away, but instead he wrapped both arms around me, burying his face into my shoulder. His hug nearly squeezed the breath out of me, but I let him hold me while I patted his back in what I hoped was a reassuring way.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he kept crying into my shoulder.

"Hey, now," I admonished gently, "it's all over now. You're okay. You'll be fine. Just take all the time you need to get it out. There we go. Good boy, good boy."

The encouraging term slipped out twice before I realized that I had said it, and Sam squeezed me even tighter as he wailed out his pain. I wondered how long he would hold onto me, not that I really minded. For all his height and strength, he seemed like a little boy, needing comfort and reassurance that he wasn't alone.

"I'm sorry about Dad," he said in a muffled voice. "I'm sorry about arguing with him, and I was sorry when he died without knowing how I really felt about him."

"Now, now," I hushed him, "John was so very proud of you. He used to talk about you, about how smart you were and how he loved you. He said he argued with you sometimes because he wanted you to feel like part of the family, to be needed by him, to have a place to belong. He said it tore him up inside when you left, and he was so sure you would come back, and he wanted to go see you, but he didn't know how to talk to you after that. But he always loved you, more than he could ever say to me."

I could feel Sam's shaking against me as he drew in long, strangled breaths. My shirt was getting wet where the cotton soaked up his tears, but I continued to hold him while he cried.

He began to calm down after a while; I could feel his breathing even out and his grip loosen, more from exhaustion that anything else. I knew I had to get him up, or he might fall asleep on top of me.

"All right," I took my arms away, and he straightened up. He wiped the last of his tears away, rubbing at his eyes with one hand like a child. He let his breath out and looked so tired that I felt sorry for him. Originally, I had planned to make him stand in the corner while I dealt with Dean, but now that seemed like a harsh thing to order him to do. So I said, "Go into the bathroom and wash your face. Then come out and sit where Dean is sitting until I tell you to get in bed."

Sam nodded, the edges on his mouth still tucked down sadly, and got up. He walked past Dean without a word, but his brother watched him until Sam closed the door behind him. Then Dean turned towards me.

"You're going to pay for that," he threatened, standing up. "You had no right to do that."

"Oh, really?" I asked calmly.

"We were doing fine," Dean declared, stopping about three paces from me. "You can't come butting in here like this."

"I didn't," I told him. "You called me."

"To help with the trickster, not beat Sammy!" Dean shot back.

"I didn't beat him, I gave him a spanking with my belt," I replied. "And are you telling me that I can only come help with what you want when you want it?"

"Yeah!" Dean retorted.

"Well, sorry, family don't work like that," I replied, slipping into a little backwoods dialog just for the heck of it.

"You're not really –"

"I'm the closest thing you have to family right now," I interrupted before he could finish. "The two of you may feel alone in the word, but you aren't, and I'm not going to let you keep acting like that. And if you don't like it, well, that's too bad."

Dean was breathing very hard, hissing out air, but at a loss for anything to say. So I decided to stop talking and get to work.

"Over the bed, just like Sammy," I directed.

Dean crossed his arms. "You're freaking out of your mind if you thing I'm going to let you belt _me_."

"You're not going to 'let' me do anything," I snapped. "I could wrestle you down if I have to, just like I'm sure John could have done if he wanted to. But I'm not going to fight you because you know you deserve this just as much as I know it. So you can stop mouthing off, and bend over, and maybe we can get this mostly over with before your brother comes out."

Dean shot a hasty look at the closed bathroom door. "I am not going to let you do this to me with him here," he hissed.

"So it's okay for you to watch Sam get spanked, but not for him to watch you?" I lifted my eyebrows.

"You shouldn't have done that to him," Dean snarled. "He didn't deserve that, any of it."

"If that was really true," I looked closely at Dean, "if you had really thought I was going to hurt him, nothing would have stopped you from fighting me off. I know you, Dean – you would do anything to save him. You knew I wasn't going to hurt him, that he needed what I gave him, and that's why you didn't come to his rescue."

Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot and kept blowing his breath out through his teeth in angry hisses, but he said nothing.

"And you know it's not fair to have Sammy get punished and you get off free when you're both at fault. So you're going to bend over that bed, and I'm not asking again."

Dean looked about ready to kill me, but I could tell that he was torn between wanting to accept the punishment to be fair to Sammy and wanting to knock me across the room.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, but I let it go because he was already getting down to lean over the edge of the bed.

I didn't have to tell Dean to move up; he got into the exact same position Sam had been in, torso on the bed and bent legs hanging off with his toes touching the floor.

"Well?" Dean challenged. "You going to start or just stare at my ass all night?"

I had to bite my lip to keep from chuckling. Unlike Sam who tried to reason his way out of things, Dean's defense was the old "Bring it on!" attitude, a true warrior's standpoint of aggression. Dean liked to face his fights head-on, forcing his opponent into action, but I refused to be goaded.

"If I want, I'll stand here all night, and you'll stay still and quiet," I decided.

"Sick perv," Dean muttered.

Again, I fought out a laugh. The kid was just trying to get me mad so he would feel in control instead of helpless and scared. I was tempted to let him feel like that a while longer, just for running his mouth at me, but I knew he hated feeling like that, and he probably had felt like that a lot lately with Sam running off and getting possessed. Not wanting prolong his emotional agony, I decided to put an end to his misery and get started.

I picked up the belt and moved towards him.


	5. Chapter 5 Getting through to Dean

AN: Well, finally here's the last part of my story. I hope you like it.

Warning: Corporal punishment in this chapter as well. . I've said this once and I'll say it again – if you don't like it, don't read and do not review! I've read the same warnings on other stories whether they be slash, torture, violence, incest, you name it. You have been warned. So don't make me come find you! Other than that, enjoy.

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters or make any money.

Thanks for reading. Tell me if you'd like a sequel.

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Just as with Sam, I didn't waste much time with talking. I could see Dean gripping the bed cover, his strong arms tensed as he waited for the first stroke to fall. The cords of his neck were also tight – he was bracing himself for this.

That was the different between the boys all right. Sam tried to talk me out of it; Dean was ready to set his teeth and bear it, whatever I decided to do. I raised the belt and brought it down in a solid wallop against his pajama-covered bottom.

He gave a sharp intake of breath, but did not make a sound, gripping the covers a little tighter.

I gave him another – he let his breath hiss through his teeth, but that was all.

So the guy was determined to take his punishment in silence. It made sense; even as a kid, Dean had always wanted Sammy to see him as the big, strong, tough, older brother who was almost invincible. Apparently, that had continued into their adult years, and though Sam seemed to have no problem with Dean seeing him cry and confess his guilt, Dean absolutely did not want Sam to see him doing the same.

A third stoke, and I could see Dean's hands gripping the covers for all he was worth, but damned if he would make a sound.

"You really think that's going to work?" I asked him.

"What?" he snapped, then hissed as I walloped him again.

"That stoic silence thing."

"What?" Dean growled between clenched teeth. "You want me to start blubbering like some sappy chick? Tell you how sorry I am? Not going to happen."

"Dean," I said quietly, continuing to smack him with the belt.

"You just go right on hitting me," he shot back. "I can take it."

"That's not the point," I began, but he cut me off angrily.

"Isn't it? You want me to get all this guilt off me, make me feel better by pounding at my ass? You're even stupider than I thought."

I was glad Sam was still in the bathroom because there was no telling what he might say to that. I didn't know if he would defend me or agree with his brother, but either way it was a good thing he stayed in there.

"I can keep this up as long as you need," I told him, laying down two firm smacks that made him wince.

"Well, you gotta do what you gotta do, and I'll do what I gotta do," he said, but his voice had weakened a little.

"Dean, this is not about you showing me how much pain you can stand," I told his dryly. "This is not a locker room with two guys flicking wet towels at each other to see who cries 'uncle!' first. This is about you and your brother. Want to guess the rest?"

"No," he answered, but I could see his grip loosening on the covers. And it was a good thing too, because if he had held them any tighter, he would have ripped them, and then we'd be paying for that as well as the TV.

"Come on," I pressed on, still walloping him firmly. The belt made an impressive sound as it hit down every time, and I knew the repetition of the sound would help break his stubbornness more than anything. I kept my strokes falling evenly, not too fast either. "Your brother had no trouble getting it out. You can, too."

"Yeah, well, Sammy's a baby," Dean said. He swiped at his face quickly, and then pretended that he hadn't, but I had already seen it.

"And you're Mr. Tough Guy," I said sarcastically. "You don't show your feelings, and you don't do anything wrong."

"Dad never made me show my feelings!" Dean barked out.

I nearly dropped my belt in surprise. Where had that come from? But I kept spanking him, acting as if I had expected it. "John let you misbehave and never got onto you about it?"

"No, he punished me all the time, but he never made me list my crimes and he certainly never made me cry when he punished me!"

"I didn't say you had to cry," I told him frankly. "I would just like some sign that you understand why I'm doing this."

"Yeah, you want to play Dad," Dean yelled.

I had been smacking him a lot longer than I had smacked Sammy, and a part of me wondering if Dean was drawing out his punishment because he thought he needed a longer one. I had feeling that for all his smart-ass attitude, Dean tended to keep everything bottled inside, torturing himself with guilt much better than anyone else could punish him. I was not surprised that John punished him frequently, especially when Sam left; John probably wanted the kid to feel that he had been punished so they could get on with their job without Dean beating himself up about it all. What was it going to take to get through to this stubborn boy?

"I am not your father," I said sternly, increasing the force of my strokes, hoping he would soon break. "I have no wish to be him. I am tired of you boys fighting and getting into trouble. I am tired of you worrying about everything and taking out your frustration on each other or keeping it all inside to the point that it tears you apart. Now, tell me what you need to say – why am I spanking you?"

"Because I'm a screw-up!" Dean bellowed, slamming his fists on the bed. "Because I ruin everything. I dragged Sammy into this when I couldn't find Dad! I joke around all the time because I know once I start acting serious, I ruin everything! I should have died there in the hospital. I should have died and not Dad! And I know he's somewhere suffering because of me, and that makes me so angry and out of control that I can't stand it. I want to die, I want to be sick, I want to do anything to make it stop, but it won't stop! It keeps going on and on, torture that never stops, and I hate it! And I know Dad wouldn't want me to be like this, and that makes me so damn angry I could kill someone right here. I am so tired of keeping it together. I'm tired of trying to figure everything out, to stay one step ahead all the time. I'm so freaking tired of the whole freaking world. I wished I had died in that hospital and it was all been over right now!"

And he finally broke down and started crying. His shoulders shook, and he grabbed the covers again, but he buried his face against his arms, fighting against his pain.

In the middle of his rant, Sam had walked out of the bathroom, but he stood still. And as Dean continued to yell out his pain, Sammy did not move as new tears streamed down his face.

I had stopped spanking Dean, but he made no move to get up. I sat down on the bed beside, but Dean didn't move, just kept shaking with sobs.

"Hey, hey," I put a hand on his shoulder. "I know it's hard. You boys have never had it easy, what with your mom dying that way, and your dad wanting to find her killer. You've had it rough, I'll admit that. But you can't keep blaming yourself. And I know I'm not your dad, and what I say might not mean as much as it would coming from him, but you got to believe when I say that you're going to be okay. You are not a screw-up. You might make a few lousy choices, but everyone does, even your dad. No, now," I objected as he began to shake his head, "John was not perfect. He had his faults like everyone. But he had a good heart, and I see that in both you and your brother. You have done the best you can with what you know. Sure, anyone can look back and say, 'I should have done this,' or 'If I knew that, it would have been different.' Hindsight's twenty-twenty – you can always look back and think you would have done different. But you've made good choices. You saved your brother when he was little, didn't you?"

His head nodded a little, but he still kept his face down.

"You've looked after him, and you've saved a lot of people, too. That's nothing to scoff at. You tried to be a good son and do what John told you, even when you didn't like it. You make a fine hunter and a fighter, and as for any other faults, well, you ain't dead yet. That's what life's for – making mistakes and learning to live better."

He finally lifted his head. His eyes were red, and his face was wet and blotchy, but he looked as if a huge burden had been lifted off his shoulders.

"You feel better now?" I asked.

"Yeah," Dean nodded the smallest bit. "I mean, my ass is on fire, and I don't really like you right now, but I'll be okay."

"You sure?" Sam asked from where he stood near the bathroom door.

"Jeez!" Dean pushed himself up off the bed. "How long you've been standing there watching?"

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sam asked again, stepping forward.

"Don't get all mushy on me again," Dean straightened up, wiping away the last of his tears and trying to look stoic again.

"Dean," Sam looked him straight in the eye, not taking any of his nonsense.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Dean grumbled. He tried to look mad at me, but it came off as more pouting than anything, especially when he sneaked a quick rub at his rear when Sam glanced towards me.

"All right, you two shake hands or hug or whatever you do to make up and be friends again," I told them, "and then we're going to sleep and putting this whole day behind us."

They approached each other awkwardly. Dean put his hand out for Sam to shake, but Sam reached out his own arm to hug his brother. They ended up first shaking hands and then kind of hugging while clapping each other on the back. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Poor John must have been exhausted after raising the two of them.

"Now, go to bed," I told them.

Sam took a deep breath. I think the hug about did him in – between the stress of the last few days and their fight and their punishment, he looked worn out. But he said, "What about the TV?"

I looked down at it all broken and sighed. "I'll take care of it in the morning. I can pay for it, and you boys can come to my house sometime and work it off."

"Really?" Sam asked, surprised at such a suggestion.

"Yeah, it's an old house, and it needs fixing up pretty often. Dean can do some of that, and you can help him or help categorize my books. I got a ton of them that need sorting."

Sam glanced at Dean, and Dean nodded, obviously thinking that was a good idea.

"Go to bed," I repeated.

"We can't," Dean said, thought rather quietly. "They didn't bring a cot up."

"Take the extra pillows," I nodded to the ones piled up, "and put them in between the big bed in the middle. That way, you can each have a side, and you won't kick each other in the night."

Sam reached for the pillows, but Dean shook his head.

"We're too old to sleep in the same bed," he said adamantly.

"Dean, come on," Sam urged. "Just do it."

"But –"

"Look," Sam whispered, as if I couldn't hear standing right there, "we already got yelled at and spanked. Just do what he says."

Dean's face flushed, but he grabbed two pillows. "You stay on your side, or I'll kick you out of the bed," he threatened Sam.

I moved out of the way, hoping they could settle this without any more arguing. I knew that the whole Dean sharing his feelings was over, and he would turn back into the smart-mouth we all knew and loved.

"Making us share a bed," Dean grumbled as they lined the pillows up on the middle of the bed. "Who does he think he is?"

"Dude," Sam said pointedly, "don't you ever learn anything?"

"Don't start with me," Dean warned. "Hey, your side's bigger."

"I'm taller," Sam said, a little smugly.

"Yeah, that's height, not width," Dean retorted. "Put them in the middle."

"Who's the baby now?" Sam muttered as he scooted the pillows over a few inches.

"You heard that?" Dean scowled.

"Dude, everyone probably heard that. You were yelling pretty loud," Sam smirked, looking very pleased with himself.

"Least I wasn't crying all over the place," Dean retorted.

"That's what you're supposed to do with you get punished like that," Sam said, refusing to get upset. "He went longer on you because you clammed up. Big mistake."

"Whatever," Dean sat down on his side of the bed, and from the corner of my eye, I saw him wince.

Sam laughed lightly, and Dean glared at him.

"Dude, you say a word of this to anyone . . ." Dean let the threat hang in the air.

"Who am I going to tell?" Sam asked bluntly. "We don't know anyone else."

"Yeah, right," Dean rolled over, trying to get comfortable, "next case we get, instead of hugging frat boys, you'll be sharing experiences – 'Oh, the other day, me and my brother got smacked with a belt so we understand how it feels to be in pain'."

"Do you ever shut up?" Sam asked.

"Apparently not," Dean rolled over onto his stomach. "Are you getting in or not?"

"I'm kind of sore," Sam said in a low voice, suddenly looking embarrassed.

"You are such a pansy," Dean groaned, hugging the pillow under his head. "You got the easier punishment. Get in and stop whining."

Sam huffed, but then he eased down on the bed and immediately rolled on his side, facing his brother.

I didn't know exactly what to do. I thought about standing over their bed and being all "Let that be a lesson to you," but that seemed like overkill, especially since they had done what I asked. But I hated to go to sleep without another word, because that would make everything uncomfortable in the morning when we said goodbye. So I made a big show of going to get my own overnight bag which was beside the smaller bed.

I picked it up and then turned to them to say, "All right, lights out. And no more arguing."

I snapped the overhead light off, leaving the light from the bathroom door to cast the room in a dull glow.

"Night, boys," I said as I headed for the bathroom.

"Night, Bobby," Sam answered immediately.

"Yeah," Dean echoed.

I went into the bathroom, looking forward to taking a hot shower. But I kept the door open a crack so I could hear them while I brushed my teeth and shaved.

"What got into him?" Sam whispered.

"How should I know?" Dean said grumpily, sounding like his face was smushed into his pillow. "I think he hung around Dad too much."

"He wasn't like Dad," Sam protested, careful to keep his voice at a hush. "Dad was, you know, different. Bobby was trying to help us out, not punish us so much as get us to talk."

"Well, I like talking that's less painful," Dean said.

"We were fighting a lot," Sam admitted with a sigh. "You think it'll be better now?"

"How should I know? You'll probably run off again."

"And you'll keep rushing into action and hitting on slutty girls," Sam replied.

"Dad never had a problem with me and girls," Dean told him.

"Did you hit on girls in front of him?"

"No, but –"

"Did you talk about sex with him?"

"No, of course not."

"Did you make out with a girl in front of him?"

"No, how sick are you?"

"Well, then Dad never saw the real sleaze-ball in you, did he?" Sam said, sounding pleased that he won that part of the argument.

Dean snorted, probably unable to think of a good comeback. "Fine. But now we have this whole working at Bobby's house to pay him back."

"So what?" Sam retorted. "We usually have time in between jobs. We stop at his house for a weekend and helped out. Really, dude, how selfish are you? The man's done a lot for us."

"Kind of wish he didn't do so much," Dean said, still sounding grouchy. "I just hope he doesn't take this new 'Uncle Bobby' attitude too far."

"'Uncle Bobby'?" Sam asked skeptically.

"That's how I'm going to think of him," Dean replied. "It'll be easier tomorrow to remember that I got punished by my Uncle Bobby than to think that Dad's friend who I now considered our friend just belted us."

"I guess," Sam said thoughtfully. "It does sound better."

"Good. What else is it going to take to get you to shut up and go to sleep."

"I don't know," Sam replied snidely. "Ask 'Uncle Bobby' to come out and tell us a story. Or sing us a song."

"I'll smother you with this pillow," Dean told him.

"Go ahead and try," Sam laughed. "I'll kick you out of this bed."

Afraid they just might do that and earn us another complaint on the telephone, I stepped out of the bathroom. Immediately, I saw both of them flop down on the pillows, eyes shut. They began breathing slowly, as if they had been asleep for an hour.

I hid my smile as I said sternly, "Boys, stop talking."

Sam nodded guiltily, but Dean cracked one eye open and shut it without a word.

I went back into the bathroom.

"You almost got us into more trouble," Sam whispered.

"You were the one talking," Dean replied, sleepily.

"Jerk." Sam accused.

"Bitch," Dean mumbled.

"Sometimes I'd like to run away for good," Sam huffed.

"I'd find you and drag back to Uncle Bobby to get your hide tanned," Dean muttered. "Now be quiet."

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Sam whispered,

"I think Dad would be glad that we called Bobby."

Dean grunted his half-approval.

"I mean, he can't replace Dad, but it's nice to have someone to talk to like that. Not Dad really ever let us talk. He was more 'Do what I say.' Not that I'm blaming him for all that, but – ow! Dean, that was my foot!"

"And I'll kick it again if you don't shut up," Dean growled.

"Boys!" I warned from inside the bathroom.

And they fell silent.

After taking a shower, I went back into the dark room. They were sound-asleep.

Dean had his face crushed into his pillow, one arm flopped over the edge of the bed as he snored softly. Sam slept on his side, hugging the covers tightly.

And I didn't hear another peep out of them for the rest of the night.

The End 


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